All in Your Head
by PotatoCrumbs
Summary: Desmond wakes up to an assassin in his bed. Desmond/Altaïr. Ficlet. Humor. PWP. Frottage.


**Title:** All in Your Head.**  
Author:** Potatocrumbs**  
Pairing:** Desmond/Altaïr**  
Summary**: Desmond wakes up to an assassin in his bed. Desmond/Altaïr. Ficlet. Humor. PWP. Frottage.**  
Author's note:**  
From the AC kinkmeme:_  
Desmond/Altaïr or Altaïr/Desmond, whichever you wish.  
It's all in Desmond's head. Bonus points if Desmond 'accidentally' moans Shaun's name during sexy times._

At the time I hadn't played AC2 and didn't know squat about Shaun, so sadly, I didn't get any bonus points. :-( I had to re-write some of it, since it was written at night while high on AC and the kinkmeme.

I am also terrible at sexy stuff. Sorry! Haha.

* * *

Desmond stares groggily up at what he is expecting to be the clinical, white cieling of the Abstergo facilities, but is instead welcomed to the land of the living by a dark, blurry face. He blinks, eyes focusing on the face of Altaïr staring back down at him, dark eyes hard and unyelding, lips curled into a scarred frown.

The bartender yelps, pushing himself back, head hitting the headboard of the bed and Desmond winces at the pain blossoming at the back of his skull. The room is silent except for Desmond's loud breathing and the low hum of the aircondition circulating cool air into the room making him shiver.

"...It's all in your head, man, _all in your head_," he murmurs low and steady, trying to even out his breathing and not taking his eyes of the assassin perched over his thights, feet planted on either side of them. The rough fabric of Altaïr's clothes lies over the clean, crisp fabric of the bed's thin comforter and Desmond swears he can feel the weight and the texture of it when he shifts slightly. Except he can't, because Altaïr is only in his _head_. The feel of the fabric, the feel of Altaïr's feet making small craters in the matress next to his thights; it's all in his_ head_.

Altaïr cocks his head to the side and then he reaches out. Desmon flinches away, but the hand is too quick, and he feels scratchy leather against his face as Altaïr holds his chin still and then slowly moving it from one side to the other, looking at his face from, what Desmond realizes, all angles.

The hair on Desmond's arms stand up and he feels a self-concious flash of nervousness at his personal-space being violated by a man he's violated the personal space and mind of several times himself. His heart beats like a drum in his ears and he can't help the hot feel of _something_ rush over his skin to his head making him dizzy.

"Altaïr...?"

Altaïr's eyes narrows, hands dropping and fisting into the fabric of Desmond's t-shirt and then he's no longer perched, but _sitting_ on him and yanking the shirt and owner towards him, Desmond's head lolling on his shoulder like a watermelon on a stick.

"H-hey!"

Desmond protests, the hot dizzy feeling intensifies and Altaïr is too close. He can feel the assassin's breath on his face, the warmth of his skin seeping into the fisted t-shirt and the fabric of Altaïr's clothes brushing the exposed skin that the t-shirt was covering up. Memories of memories flares though his mind. Scenes Lucy, blushing, had apologized for putting him trough, unable to skip them; memories of Altaïr, women and _men_ that had Desmond jerking off in the shower after sessions, uncaring about the cameras observing him doing it.

And, Ah,_ fuck_, the weight and friction makes his cock harden and if Desmond didn't think he was going insane he is definitively thinks it now. Desmond bites back a groan as Ataïr shifts on top of him, a delicious heat pooling in his stomach as fabric brushes his stomach. Heat rushes to his face and _fuck_- Altaïr _notices- _and goes still.

There's a pause where they both hold their breath and the only noise in the room is the hum of the air-condition.

The assassin studies Desmond, body stiff, thights pressed heavy and strong over Desmond's hips, dark eyes a little wider than before. Then he starts,_ Jesus mother fucking almighty_- He starts to_ rock_- no, rock and _grind_ himself down on Desmond's cock and Desmond finds himself falling back once again against the headboard as Altaïr lets go of his t-shirt.

Pain prickles at the back of his head once more as it connects, but this time Desmond doesn't care.

He moans something between _fuck_, _shit_ and an unintelligible noise, and he doesn't know whether to be humiliated or turned on by his ancestor, _this is pretty fucked up_, staring at every little twitch of expression on his face and the red color spreading from his face to his neck. It's a hundred, no a _thousand_, times worse than the guilty,_ fucking amazing _feeling of jerking off to intimate images of Altaïr's sex-life.

It doesn't take long with Altaïr's hips moving in a steady rhythm, his rough fingers brushing against Desmond's exposed abdomen. The pressure builds, Desmond fists the sheets of his bed and the lack of sex Desmond has been getting for the past months doesn't help; he comes, eyes rolling back into his head, semen coating the insides of his boxers and he groans, hips rutting upwards in small desperate thrusts meeting nothing but the damp, white sheet.

When Desmond opens his eyes again, breath caught in his throat and uncomfortably sticky, the weight is gone and so is Altaïr.

After a moment as his heartbeat slows down to normal, he turns his head and glances at the clock on the desk blinking 05:46 in red, angry digits. Groaning, and muttering underneath his breath about it being _way too early for shit like this_, he kicks his boxer-shorts off, bends down to grab them and wipes whatever didn't hit the fabric, off his thighs.

Desmond shudders, his skin sensitive to the cool air of the room now that the coiling heat in his belly is gone.

There is nothing to do but go back to sleep.

And if Desmond feels a sting of disappointment in the morning when there are no assassins on his crotch? His mind, broken or not, is kind enough not to linger on the matter.


End file.
